Beyond Clueless (26 page)

To Felix’s credit, though, he
did
show up for the performance, as justifiably horrible as it must have been for him. I half hoped that he wouldn’t show and perhaps Oliver would be sent in as his understudy.

Sigh. Oliver.

There is one final bit to the story.

Maria Kilkenny, it turns out, comes from a pretty fancy-schmancy family. She lives in a big modern house in Lakewood, perched atop a steep bluff along Lake Erie. There’s a big deck facing the water, and the nighttime view from there is
unreal
: just the twinkly Cleveland skyline off in the distance to the right and a vast black emptiness directly ahead, the tiny whitecaps of waves winking in and out of existence near the shoreline. I can’t even imagine how gorgeous it is in the daytime.

It was pretty cold out, so the Kilkennys had set out kerosene heat lamps on the deck and had left piles of fleece blankets on the random groupings of tables and chairs. Bowls of chips and salsa were scattered about, and towers of plastic cups were posted next to a small battalion of two-liter pop bottles. With strings of tiny lights wrapped around the balustrade and lit candles set out in glass vases, the whole space glowed, like a fancy wedding reception in a movie.

All the kids involved with the show were there after the
performance on Saturday—all except Felix, who managed to get out of costume and disappear before most people even reached the dressing rooms after curtain call. Some of the guys were at one side of the deck, seeing who could spit the farthest out toward the water. Jenny McCafferty was on the other side, telling a bunch of orchestra girls and Kate O’Day war stories from her time managing the spring play last year. They were laughing, genuinely laughing, at what Jenny was saying, and she was clearly in seventh heaven. Xiang, Parker, Jimmy, and Derek were playing a heated game of Hearts at one table, and I was nestled under a blanket at another, talking to Maria, Calliope, and Penelope, the girl who’d played the Baker’s Wife, about theater-y stuff. (If you must know, about who played
Gypsy
’s Mama Rose best on Broadway. I still say Angela Lansbury.)

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Oliver putting on his jacket in the kitchen.

“Hold that thought. I’ll be back soon to
completely
disagree with you,” I said to the girls, casting off my blanket and making my way inside.

Oliver and I still hadn’t spoken since our blowout on Thursday. I’d awakened that morning (OK, yes, afternoon) resolved to make things right with him, but, considering how horribly I had treated him, it just hadn’t felt right to start the reconciliation process with a text or a phone call. As much as I dreaded it, this had to be done in person.

I had asked my parents to bring me to the theater early because I’d hoped to catch Oliver alone. It turned out,
however, that he was even better at avoiding me than Felix was. Every time I’d tried to make eye contact with Oliver during notes both before the show and during intermission, he’d looked away and busied himself with checking microphones or reviewing Jenny’s extensive to-do lists. Throughout the show, I’d searched backstage, hoping to corner him somewhere (and inadvertently sending Felix scurrying off), but he’d always managed to duck away just before I could actually say something. He wouldn’t talk to Derek or Jimmy, either.

But finally, this was my chance. By the time I had gotten to the kitchen, though, Oliver was already at the front door.

“Oliver, wait!” I called out. “Don’t go yet!”

He paused, his hand on the doorknob, for just a moment. But then he turned the knob and went out.

“Oliver!” Goddammit. I hustled after him. “Stop! Please!”

He’d made it to his car by the time I caught up. It was parked along the street, close to where the pavement met the edge of the bluff, which dropped precipitously to the shoreline below.

“Please,” I huffed, trying to catch my breath. He stood, holding the car keys, waiting, as the jagged crashing of waves measured off the long moment.

“What?” he said, not making eye contact. “What do you want?”

He didn’t say it like a question; he said it like “Go away.”

“Look, I know you’re mad at me, and you have every right to be pissed,” I started, tears already pooling in my eyes. The
crying was involuntary and totally annoying; I wanted him to see that I was sorry, not for him to feel sorry for me.

“Mad? I’m not mad,” he said brusquely.

“I’m trying to apologize,” I insisted, my voice breaking. The wind whipped my hair around my head, and my whole body began to tremble with nerves.

“I’m not mad,” he repeated, taking a step away and
actually turning his back
to me.

“Of
course
you are!” I cried. “Come on, Oliver, you won’t even look at me!”

I watched the back of his head shake back and forth. “Marty, I’m not mad,” he said quietly, so I could barely hear him over the waves and the wind.

Then he slowly turned around and finally met my gaze. He swallowed and took a breath, and I realized he was close to tears, too.

He whispered, “I’m just fucking humiliated.”

Yeesh. I’d only ever heard Oliver swear once before.

And I’d never seen him look so self-conscious, so vulnerable, so . . . sad. I mean, this wasn’t him. None of this was the Oliver I knew.

I tried to say something, but it seemed that my heart had suddenly lodged itself in my throat. I swallowed hard, my whole body still vibrating.

And I don’t know where this instinct came from, but instead of blurting something out, I grabbed the back of Oliver’s neck and went in for a kiss.

I mean, I had made out with Felix, obviously, so it’s not
like kissing was brand-new. But Felix generally initiated the kissing, pushing his face into mine, so I always knew he was up for it. This was totally different: Oliver looked like he could slug me at any moment, and I
promise
, I wasn’t even planning to kiss him.

But, for some totally inexplicable reason, I just engaged autopilot and violated his personal space.

And, thank heavens, it turned out to be the right thing to do. Oliver’s body jerked a bit upon contact, but it wasn’t long before he relaxed and eased into a prolonged smooch.

When I came up for air, cheeks totally wet by this point (Hey, now—by my tears! We’re not
dogs
), I held his head with both hands, forcing him to look directly into my eyes.

“I. Am. So. Sorry. This was totally my disaster, not yours. You have
nothing
to be embarrassed about.”

He smiled wide, his puppy brown eyes crinkling at the edges. “Hmm. Not so sure about that. I mean, initially I just thought I was being rejected for some creep.”

I felt a stab.

“Now, don’t get me wrong, that’s pretty bad,” he continued. “But then I realized I had misread a girl’s signals to the point where I thought I was on a date—at the same time that she thought I was gay. And the fact that the misunderstanding didn’t get cleared up
during the course of the date
? Yeah, you know, that’s not something I’m particularly proud of.”

I returned his smile. “Well, in your case, it wasn’t really as bad as that, since it wasn’t just any girl.”

“I suppose she does have her charms . . .”

“No, silly, not in
that
way,” I said, finally relaxing a bit and giggling, slapping his chest lightly. “Your little misunderstanding wasn’t as bad as you say, because the girl in question was one hundred percent beyond clueless. The whole making-wild-assumptions thing. Like, I still can’t believe I somehow thought your dad was holding hands with Kirby’s dad.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah, I have to admit, when Kirby told me that one . . .”

“
And
this girl couldn’t identify a total jerk.” I kicked at the ground.

He chuckled. “ ‘
Even flowers have their dangers,
’ huh?”

A last puzzle piece clicked into place. The card! “Oh, my God. That card was from you, wasn’t it?”

Seeing my surprise, he reddened a bit. “I didn’t really know what else to do,” he mumbled. “You didn’t want to hear it from me, so I figured a bit of anonymous advice never hurt anyone . . .”

I let this sink in for a moment, still clutching Oliver’s waist, and he mine. I thought about how Xiang had described her relationship with Parker as natural . . .
comfortable
.

I think I understood that now.

Thinking back, I was attracted to the
idea
of being with Felix more than actually being with him. Or I didn’t know what I wanted, really. I was so busy trying to be the person I thought he might like that that I didn’t spend a whole lot of energy getting to know him. (Obviously.)

But when I’m hanging out with Oliver, I know he likes me for the person I already am (even now, despite everything!). And
I
like me when I’m around him.

More to the point, I
really
like who Oliver is. He’s just so great, and he makes me want to be better.

(And now I think he’s even cuter than Felix ever was.) ;-)

“So, anyway,” I continued, fingering a belt loop on his jeans. “This girl needs to make it right with you. She wants to. Somehow.”

“Well,” Oliver said, straightening up, “fortunately, I am what you might call an idea man.”

He drew me closer. As our foreheads touched, I couldn’t help but note the contrast with my last encounter with Felix. Instead of rising panic, I felt nothing but desire bubbling up.

“In fact,” he continued, his lips brushing up against mine, “I have a number of suggestions. Starting with—”

Well. You can probably guess the rest.

Linas Alsenas
has spent—OK,
spends
—way too much time singing show tunes to himself in the mirror. He has written several books for children and young adults, including
Gay America
and
The Princess of 8th Street
. Raised in a suburb of Cleveland, Ohio, Linas now lives in London with his husband and works at a children’s book publisher.